The Bereaved

Por Juan José García Álvarez

Yearning for flowers
Let me rest
Been years, perhaps a day
Color left, no follows

Stop what never started
Can’t feel, death throws
Stroke after stroke
Awaiting, awoken, asleep

Seen it yet?
Hears you but never us
Rushes when you do
Slows when you don’t

There is no more
Mechanical, maniacal
Made not to last but to rot
Not to matter, not to enjoy